


my kind of love

by dormant_bender



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet Ending, Constructive Criticism Welcome, Emotional Hurt, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Heartbreak, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, One-Sided Relationship, Possibly Unrequited Love, Short One Shot, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 02:00:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7294954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormant_bender/pseuds/dormant_bender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I can't buy your love, don't even wanna try.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Sometimes the truth won't make you happy, still I'm not gonna lie.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>But don't ever question if my heart beats only for you, it beats only for you."</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>marc isn't stupid, he knows what's going on, but he just can't let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my kind of love

**Author's Note:**

> sooo.. listen to the song while reading at your own risk, i'm sitting here all teary-eyed.
> 
> i have gotta stop torturing poor marc. D:
> 
> trying a new format, too. c:

[click here for the song: ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_-yT9lf-R5s)  
  
    Things were suddenly different; the kind of different where everything seems to change within the blink of an eye.  
  
    All that comes to mind is dates where he was left sitting at a booth at the back of a nearby restaurant, head bowed, shades cleverly shielding the disappointment that steadily lurks within murky depths. Or when the two had planned to meet up at the other's flat only for the blond to slide down the length of the door, anxiously awaiting the younger's impending arrival, head thudding roughly against the surface with a dull thud that is nothing to the stir-up within his chest cavity.  
  
    Not that he hadn't seen this coming at all, in fact: he very well had and even sought out advice from one team member in particular who had advised him that it was better to let things go than allow them to continue how they were now. Something about why one would need to keep repairing something trivial, like a mirror, only for it to shatter once more but into finer pieces the next time around.  
  
     _Wince_.  
  
    There he is currently on the couch with a clear view of the door to his flat, patient as always, one leg crossed over the other. One hand rests idly on the remote on his left, tempted to turn the television off, while he other taps monotonously on his upper thigh. Forget the fact that he had been sitting there for—he actually pauses, has nothing better to do, and glances at his watch—almost an hour now waiting the return of the brunet who had left earlier that morning for unspoken errands.  
  
    Soon he hears heavy footfalls approach the door, can hear fingers fiddling with the locks, only for the door to finally slide open to reveal a hazy-eyed Rafinha with a ridiculous grin resting upon his lips. At the sight of the blond he goes rigid, halting within the door frame, cheeks darkening considerably. Fingers tug absently at the collar of his black shirt, it wasn't tight in the slightest, before he finally steps in and closes the door with a hushed click behind him.  
  
    "Oh, Marquinho.. Sorry I'm late, y'know how things go." It's not even an attempt of a lie whatsoever but the blond accepts it, much like he always does, then beckons the Brazilian with a finger. "Oh? Me?" He points to himself, brows lifting, but obliges nonetheless. When he sits, he allots a decent gap between them, not that it helped in any way.  
  
    Somehow he could still smell the faint scent of cologne clinging desperately to the black shirt, knows well-enough that the aroma doesn't belong to him too. "I was waiting for you," sighs the German as he runs slender digits through trimmed blond locks, mussing them about. "I had to cancel our reservations, I texted you about it, but I guess you never got the it?"  
  
    Hisses spew from unusually crimson lips as the male pats his snug jeans down vehemently until he retrieves the cased-phone, pressing the home button, allowing his gaze to scan the screen. "Honestly? I didn't even hear my phone, I swear. I was just too busy I guess, but I'm sorry, and I'll make it up to you."  
  
    Lips quirk into a devious smirk now as he crawls across the couch, climbing into Marc's available lap, legs straddling either side of his waist. Arms twine neatly behind his neck, tugging him forward, until lips are merely centimeters from the latter. He offers a soft chuckle as he brushes smooth lips against the blond's, who's eyes clench tightly shut, bottom lip quivering slightly.  
  
    Never once had the blond said anything about the suspicious actions of his lover, never had the strength to actually do so without completely blubbering like a small child. Instead he would offer a reserved, forced smile—like he was attempting now—to show that everything was dandy as could be. Seemingly satisfied with the response, Rafinha leans forward, capturing thin lips with his own plump one's.  
  
    The usual sync of melded lips is slightly off, not that he was surprised, it had been that way for nearly months now. Too fast of a tempo, lips far too eager, not slow and languid to revel in the other's presence. Not any longer, so the blond had to adjust, unless he wanted to allot the knowledge that he knew what was going on behind the veil of fond grins and twinkling eyes that had an unfamiliar glimmer within them.  
  
    Pale hands go to the latter's waist, slipping beneath the thin material of his shirt, seeking out the bare warmth of skin. It served as an anchor, one that kept him focused, as he tries to ignore the sickly sweet tang of—of something against the tongue that moves against his, one that was so unpleasantly Rafinha that he actually crinkles his nose at, lips stuttering in their movements.  
  
    "What?" inquires the Brazilian as he moves moist lips along the length of his jaw, hips grinding down against his own. "Moving too fast?"  
  
    Marc gulps deeply, the avid and fluid movements of hips distracting him, so much so that he grips painfully tight onto Rafinha's hips until he hears a soft hiss. "No, no—Not that, never that, it's just—"  
  
    A single finger raises to press tightly against his lips, silencing him completely, the brunet grinning broadly. "Your mind is still on dinner then?" lightheartedly teases the male as he leans forward, lips ghosting along the outer shell of Marc's ear, tongue outlining the shell. "Wouldn't you rather have dessert? Chocolate is better than anything you could imagine, yes?"  
  
    He mentally curses himself for the shaky sound that is reeled from his mouth, can practically feel the warmth of a blush spreading across his cheeks, as he brings a hand up to fondly comb through mussed brunet locks. "I just want to watch a movie for once, then maybe I could cook for you, then we could play those board games you used to like?"  
  
    All he receives in response is a snort, the sound like a bolt of lightning as it directs straight to his heart, ultimately making him tremble. "Who thinks of Monopoly at a time like this," darkening blues glance down to avoid eye contact at the harsh tone directed to him: "don't you want me, Marquinho? Just like this?"  
  
    There were a list of things he had desired to say; why do you continuously come home smelling like you bathed in Neymar's cologne, why did you have borrowed clothing of the aforementioned hidden beneath the rest of your clothing in your drawers, why did you insist that nothing is wrong when clearly I'm just not enough for you?  
  
    "Always."  
  
    It hurts to say even if it held truth.  
  
    Because even if he was out fucking Neymar all day, he had always come home—home, to him, because home was where the heart is, right? And he wouldn't return if there were no more mutual feelings, right? Because then that would be wrong, and would what that even make him? A convenience? Someone he could freely leech off of until there was nothing left of his very heart and soul except the foundation that left him barely alive?  
  
    There was something wrong with him, there had to be.  
  
    Because even as fervent hands brush along the skin of his body as the younger bares him, clothing strewn carelessly across the floor, he can only ponder just what he was to Rafinha and what the brunet could possibly want from him. Pink lips are parted ever so slightly as the warmth of a hand surrounds them both, stroking in quick and jerky movements, one's that leave him feeling intoxicated.  
  
    Even as the brunet sinks down on the hardened length of his cock, surrounding him in snug and heady heat. Everything is so tight and hot and warm and he still has the ability to somehow think, that's how he knows something is wrong, even as nails grip into his shoulders tight enough to leave crimson crescents and even despite the way that teeth are viciously sinking into his neck to properly claim him.  
  
    Without a doubt he would always be Rafinha's, the very name spewing from his lips in a moaning mantra, eyes flickering back and forth across his countenance to singe every bite of the lips and eye clench into the back of his mind for later recollection.  
  
    Then he allows himself to feel.  
  
    Feel every desperate clench around his cock.  
  
    How every clench of the latter's walls seemed to correlate with the constriction of his heart within his chest.  
  
    Hips buck unabashedly upward in an attempt to remain encompassed by the snug heat of the brunet before the inevitable bliss would end. Still, his walls continue to tug him deeper and deeper, surging further into the slick heat until he's buried to the hilt where he finally releases with a cry—one that's wholeheartedly that, tears streaming down the contours of his face and all.  
  
    Rafinha doesn't notice, no, eyes still tightly clenched as he lazily strokes his cock as he comes down from his high. When he finally notices, Marc can only assume, he feels feather-light kisses glide along the tears that relentlessly trail down his cheeks in broken rivulets; he was thoroughly broken.  
  
    "A-are you okay?" that soft voice reverberates deafeningly loud against his eardrums, but somehow it's still drowned out by the sound of his pulse within his ears. "Hey, hey.. Tell me what's wrong, meu amor?" Fingers now swipe with purpose against his flushed cheeks, ridding him of the tears, but it's in vain as new one's form in their wake.  
  
    An arm slants across Marc's face, not desiring the latter to see him at his lowest point, body convulsing with his violent sobs. "D-don't, Rafa—P-please, j-just don't."  
  
    "Don't what?" He can only assume the confusion that overwhelms his countenance as he feels the warmth leave his body. Then he feels less moist hands grip at his arm, seldom tugging it away, using one of the shirts to dab tenderly at his streaked face. "Talk to me, I've never seen you like this before. Is something wrong? You need to tell me."  
  
    How could someone that should be so terrible be so unbelievably tender even despite their blatant infidelity? That's what he mentally ponders, eyes still clenched shut, hands blindly darting out to halt the arm still moving to cleanse his face. "D-do you.." He sniffles, taking a deep breath: "do y-you l-love me?"  
  
    "What kind of a stupid question is that?" Once more he feels the bare form of Rafinha settle on top of him, arms wrapping delicately around him, cradling him close.  
  
    "I n-need t-to know. Please," manages to squeak the blond as he clutches desperately onto every ounce of skin he can manage to find, holding him still in a vice-grip, burying his face within the crook of the younger's neck.  
  
    All is silent for a brief moment, he can hear the sound of a stuttered heartbeat against his ear however, the sound not comforting in the least. But still, he can't manage to let him go, nails curving inward into his skin. "I love you, Marc, now will you please stop? I don't like seeing you cry, it makes me want to cry." Silence. "We can watch whatever movie you wanted to see?"  
  
    Nothing else except a vigorous nod of the head is manageable as the blond runs a hand down his face. His skin is thoroughly flushed in splotchy crimson, nose running slightly, as he hefts the younger into his arms and transports him ultimately into the bedroom. Arms gently bend to release him, the nude male crawling to to the very center of the bed, playfully rubbing the spot next to him.  
  
    Ivory teeth are buried deep within his lower lip as he sifts aimlessly through his movie collection until finally placing a disk in that had no monetary value. When he joins the brunet, he's met with clingy arms, one's that are gliding along every inch of his skin and tenderly attempting to soothe the soft wracks of his body.  
  
    Not even fifteen minutes in, the brunet is soundly asleep, soft snoring filling the otherwise quiet room, save for the hushed whispers echoing from the television. He strokes his thumb tenderly along the length of Rafinha's arm, smoothing along the skin there, chin resting upon the very top of his head.  
  
    Tomorrow he would tell him that he didn't—no, _couldn't_ —be with him anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> hit ?? miss ?? lemme know c:
> 
> love you guys that have left comments, even if i haven't replied yet. i've been m.i.a and feeling sort of sad ?? not sure why ?? 
> 
> but i'm sorry and i still appreciate everything, i promise. <3 xx


End file.
